


in disappearing ink

by sirfeit



Series: recorded 'verse [1]
Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/F, F/M, Gen, M/M, On Hiatus
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-16
Updated: 2016-07-07
Packaged: 2018-06-02 13:00:49
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,281
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6567352
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sirfeit/pseuds/sirfeit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Modern AU that is canon-divergent after 3x09. Murphy as the central character.</p><p>Murphy wakes up in a solitary cell, but he's not on the Ark and he's not on the ground. </p><p>--<br/>this is on indefinite hiatus</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. time for a nap

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> title taken from[ this ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZXKbZUmu1W0)Mountain Goats song: "one whole life recorded: in disappearing ink."

John Murphy wakes up in solitary. _Shit._ He doesn’t remember how he got here, what he did. Did he hit his head? The last thing he remembers --

He was on the ground. He made it to Earth. Somebody decided that he, _John Murphy_ , would get to go to Earth. Then some other stuff happened, and -- He was being tortured. Again.

No. Clarke came to save him.

That’s not it either.

The new Commander was there, all threats and wariness. He’s been there, too; make threats to disguise how scared you are. He’s already forming a plan: make himself useful, worm his way into her heart, get himself not-dead.

Except he’s not going to need this plan if he’s in solitary on the Ark. _What the fuck._

Did he hit his head? Did he do some weird time travel shit?

He gets to know his cell: standard bed shelf, the classic toilet/sink combo ( _gosh_ , Mbege, what’ll they think of next?), shelf above the bed for food. Closed door. Speaker for intercom interaction. Florescent light that he has no control over. Blinking red light for the camera. Mattress filled with foam, foam pillow, fuzzy blanket. Mmm. That’s a nice blanket, actually. He curls it around him.

Time travel shit? More like time for a nap.

\---

Wakes up with a startle when the tray in his door opens. Nobody speaks to him. Good. Slides in a tray of food.

Tastes like cardboard. Jeez. At least food on the ground has flavor.

He wonders if Mbege is still alive here. If Finn is. Maybe he’ll see them when he gets back into genpop.

The voices outside his door are enough to keep him sane, for now. He saves talking to himself for later. He’s never had trouble sleeping.

It’s not like the bunker. He knows there will be an end to it, just as he knows there are people just beyond the walls.

Wake up, eat, lay in bed, thinking of nothing, until food comes again. Spends his days between sleeping and waking.

This isn’t so bad. He can take this.

It’s the eleventh day, judging by the number of meals he’s been given, when a voice comes through the intercom. “Prisoner #208,” it says. “An inspection of your cell has been requested. Assume the lockdown position.”

Jesus. He uncurls himself from the blanket and positions himself in the middle of the floor, on his knees. Interlocks his fingers behind his head.

The door is unlocked, opens. Two guards come in, trash his shit. He’s not allowed to look, but he can hear them.

Well - he did steal a couple sporks. It was habit. The tines aren’t going to do much damage, but maybe he deserves the hit to the jaw anyway. The second hit, though, definitely not, and he’s unhooking his hands from each other, getting off his knees --

There’s two of them. They take him down. It’s easier to take than the silence, than the nothingness. He’s kind of glad for it.

One of them squeezes his shoulder. “Two more days, 208,” he says. “Then you’re home free.”

Two more days until he’s eighteen? Fuck. He groans and tries to trip the guard. The guard laughs, and then the door is shutting behind them.

He nurses his wounds. It’s a better task than sleep.

\----

When it’s time for his death, he doesn’t go out with a fight. He’s lazy and sluggish from an excess of sleep, and when they take his arms and lead him to the anteroom, he drops into a chair. He’s checked over by someone from Medical and they give him back the clothes he was arrested in.

He doesn’t remember these clothes. He puts them on anyway.

Someone shoves a clipboard into his hands. Like they think he’s good at reading. He signs the bottom. He’s given a messenger bag that isn’t his. He sets it over his shoulder. He follows guards out into the sunlight.

Sunlight? No. Yes? He’s on the ground? They’re killing him, still. It must be radiation.

He breathes in. It smells as good as it did the first time. “Your ride here yet?” asks the guard to his shoulder.

“Uh,” says Murphy. _What._

Guard leaves him outside the prison. “If she doesn’t come within the hour, get back inside and we’ll give you a bus token.”

“Okay,” says Murphy, his voice rough with disuse.

He leans against the brick wall of the building. That’s new. _Buildings_. He starts looking through his messenger bag.

Contents: a notebook. Crumpled papers. Two paperback books. A recorder like the one he had as a kid.

He pulls that out. Turns it on. Presses _play._ It plays the last thing he recorded. It’s his own voice. He doesn’t remember recording anything.

_I’m you. Look, I don’t think we have much time -- hopefully you’re listening to this right after you got out of prison, and you’re waiting for Octavia to pick you up. Here’s the deal: you’re new to this world, and I’ve recorded some stuff for you to get through it. You’re not on the Ark anymore, but you’re not on your Earth either: the year is 2020. You’re living my life, as John Murphy._

It’s his own voice.

It’s his own voice.

It’s his own voice.

A car pulls up. Someone gets out. Long blonde hair.

Clarke.

\---

This isn’t happening. She left him. She left him in Polis -- She can’t be here for him. She’s picking someone else up.

“Murphy, what happened to your face?”

He has no idea what’s wrong with his face. “Got in a fight,” he says, which is kind of true.

She’s opening the door of her car. “Well, get in,” she tells him. “I’m sorry Octavia isn’t here, she had something come up at the last minute--”

He folds himself into the front seat. He stares at Clarke until she reaches over and buckles some kind of safety belt over him. She pops a disc into her music player. “ _This is my[Welcome Home, Murphy](http://8tracks.com/latitude-b/welcome-home-murphy)_  mix,” she tells him.

She knows him. Or she knew Past Him. Past Murphy. [Music](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gGdGFtwCNBE) blasts through the car’s speakers.

It’s _so loud_. Everything has sharpened into spikes, driving behind his eyes. There’s too much going on. He squeezes his eyes shut and puts his hands over his ears.

Clarke turns off the music. “Too much, huh?” she asks, voice gentle. “It’s okay. We don’t have to talk.”

She turns the keys underneath the steering wheel, and the car pulls into motion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> everything I know about prison I learned from reading American Gods. Clarke drives a Nissan Leaf. keep an eye out for Clarke's "Welcome Home, Murphy" mix CD, in this space soon or in next chapter's endnotes!
> 
> wow, hi there! thanks for reading! here's the Modern Murphy AU that I've been tossing around for awhile. let me know if you like it: leave a comment, kudos, or talk to me on my tumblr!


	2. the year is 2020

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Past Murphy ruminates on the implications of where he might be now. Current Murphy is annoyed. Clarke makes a wicked good grilled cheese.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter brought to you by Caspian's album "Dust and Disquiet"

He’s read about cars, or rather, he’s watched Mbege read about cars and then summarize them to him. Telling himself that he understands why cars exist doesn’t make him feel any less sick. Nausea burns his stomach. He stares out the window, at anything other than Clarke.

 _The year is 2020_. He needs to get out his recorder again. He can’t do this with Clarke right there. The car is pulling over, across from a house. Clarke reaches over and undoes his safety belt. He follows Clarke into the house. Clarke takes a real long look at him and says, “Hey. You wanna take a nap in the guest bedroom?” and he just nods and stares at her and follows when she gestures. The notion of doors elude him, so he stares and stares when Clarke opens the door of a bedroom. He goes in and sits on the bed. She leaves.

It takes him a while to stand up and close the door.

Solitary always does that to him.

He picks up the recorder again.

_I always knew this was going to happen. From when I was ten years old, maybe, and I first dreamt of you -- at first, it was just dreams of space, of the moon, the stars, the Earth from a totally different perspective. Then, your father died trying to save you -- and, my father died trying to save me too, except it was in a firefight and he was shot by police. Not so different, though, are they? Alex Murphy was a self-sacrificing bastard in all possible worlds. Maybe it’s circumstances that make us what we are._

_I didn’t used to know what they were. I thought they were just visions, just dreams. And then - I dreamt of you. I dreamt of you - being me. Here, with me, but I was gone - I always knew this was going to happen. I didn’t know when or why or how - I don’t know how any of this is happening. Lightning, magic, weird sci-fi shit - from the future, from the past - I don’t know. When I got arrested - I knew it was coming soon. I think - I think it will happen just after I get out of prison. After you get out of prison. When you become you, as me, living my life. I don’t - I don’t get it either._

_And then - I don’t know if you and I are the same. If we’re the same person. You and I - we have the same scars. The cut that never healed right underneath your left eye? Me too. At least we were never a looker to begin with, right? The scar on your leg, from where you got stabbed and they didn’t have enough stitches in Medical to knit you right? Me too. Look. Are we the same? Do you have more scars than I do? I don’t know. And - if we are the same, then who are we? Are we made different, similar, by circumstance? You killed. I went to college. Are we all victims of circumstance? The people I know are the people you know - but, different. Different circumstances. Different slants to our lives._

_Did you come to inhabit my body? Am I you in the future? Did we switch places? Am I in Polis now, in the ruined tower, doing what I have to do to survive? I don’t know. Do you have the same dreams? Am I dead? I don’t know._

Jesus. Past Murphy was boring as heck. Get over yourself and tell him what he needs to do. Who is Clarke to him? Does he assume Past Murphy’s life seamlessly, or does he try and get back to his own world? He lets the recorder play, gets up and examines himself in the standing mirror. He touches his face. Nice bruise. Clarke’s gonna want to -- Well. He doesn’t know what this Clarke wants.

_Octavia is supposed to pick me - you - up from prison. I’ve known that you’re going to take over for me my entire life, but I was never quite sure when. But now I know. After I got arrested, I knew. So I told Octavia everything. I think she can help you - adjust. If you want to. You can do whatever you want in this world, John Murphy; nobody’s got you underneath their power. You’re free, or, as free as you’ll ever get._

Did Past Murphy actually give him an exit plan or is he just theorizing here? Even then, would he leave without knowing the full measure of where he is? At this point, he can’t even safely operate a door. And -- Octavia?

_I know you were never close to Octavia on the ground,_

That’s an understatement. But then - he hasn’t talked to her since before the City of Light.

_but here, she’s one of my best friends, second only to Clarke, maybe. She plays electric violin in a band called Trikru. She named it after my dreams. She’s usually on tour with them, so be sure to thank her for taking time off to spend with you._

But Octavia hadn’t come to pick him up. It was Clarke, and he doesn’t know what to do with Clarke, a Clarke that is interested in him. He wonders if the Commander is dead here, too, if Clarke is even dating her. Had ever dated her. If she’s here at all. He’s going to need to bullshit his way out of this: if she was best friends with Past Murphy, how is she going to react knowing that he no longer exists, or at least isn’t here anymore?

“Hey,” says Clarke at his doorway, and he startles so bad that he drops the recorder. The battery cover pops off and his voice stops. “You listening to your own voice again?”

He doesn’t know what to say. He swallows. If his recorder is wrecked he’s fucked. He might be fucked anyway. She’s crossing the space between them. He doesn’t want this. Her thumb is going for his jawline, to test the bruises there - He doesn’t want her to touch him. He would give _anything_ \- He sits down abruptly on the bed, avoiding her.

“I made you grilled cheese,” she says, her hand dropping to her side. She looks a little hurt. Fuck you too, Clarke. Shouldn’t have left me all alone in Polis.

But she -- didn’t do that. But she has the capability to. But Polis doesn’t exist here. _The year is 2020._ He needs to stop overreacting, get a grip. “Thanks,” he says, and doesn’t move. He doesn’t look up at her.

And her fingers are on his jaw anyway. She tilts his face up, forces his eyes to meet hers. As soon as they do, she jerks her hand away. He flinches. “You’re not Murphy,” she says.

She doesn’t know how wrong she is.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> google chrome would like all of you to know that 'dreamt' is Not A Word
> 
> you might have noticed that I haven't replied to any comments yet, but as soon as this chapter is posted, I will! replying to comments left is one of the best parts of my day, and I didn't want to get to it until I had written + posted this chapter. as always: your comments and kudos really do mean the world to me. 
> 
> also i'm sorry for suddenly developing a taste for leaving chapters on cliffhangers. it's just so satisfying.


	3. i'm a lot of trouble

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Octavia arrives.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wow sorry for the long break in between chapters! ch3 is always hard for me and I don't like putting out chapters that are under 1k words because that just seems ridiculous

She calls Octavia. Not-Murphy is sitting at her dining room table, eating grilled cheese and dipping it reverentially into the tomato soup. Knowing his full measure now, it’s easy to see that he isn’t her Murphy; his shoulders hunch differently, his voice has a slightly different cadence.

“Hey,” she says into the phone. “Can you come down? Murphy came home, and -- he’s not _our_ Murphy.” Her voice breaks. She swallows. “I think -- I think he’s gone, O.”

Octavia makes soothing but distracted noises over the line. “Are you sure he hasn’t just woken up from a nap or something? Sometimes this happens, when he’s disoriented.”

“Octavia, I know how Murphy works,” she hisses. “I’m telling you, it’s finally happened. It’s over. Please come down.”

“Clarke, Lincoln still hasn’t woken up, and I don’t want to --”

“Please, Octavia.”

There’s a rush of static over the line. “Can you put him on?”

“I don’t think he knows how to use a phone.”

”Just put him on the line, Clarke.”

She taps Not-Murphy on the shoulder. He flinches away from her touch. “Octavia wants to talk to you,” she tells him. He stares at her. She’s someone different to him, and he to her. She wants to cry. She hands him the phone.

“I don’t know --”

She takes the phone back and thumbs it to speaker. “You’re on speakerphone,” she says aloud, and then, to Not-Murphy: “She can hear you.”

“Hey, Murph,” says Octavia through the phone, tinny but still recognizable. “How was prison?” she asks.

“Shitty,” he tells her.

Her laughter is canned. “K, Murph. I’m heading out now, Clarke, see you on the flip side.” She hangs up.

“Sorry,” says Murphy into his tomato soup. Not-Murphy. They’re so similar. They’re so dissimilar.

“It’s fine,” she says, unthinking.

Of course, it’s not fine.

\---

Clarke still lets him stay there. Clarke lets him sit at her table, eat her sandwich. Grilled cheese.

It’s better than anything he’s had for a long time.

Clarke is off the phone now, trying to talk to him. “So,” she says. “Who am I to you?” she asks.

He swallows. “You’re Clarke,” he says. He swallows again, out of nervousness this time. “You’re very bossy.”

She barks out a laugh. He flinches. She stares at him, and then sweeps out of the room without another word. Good. He can’t stand her, either.

He leaves the empty bowl of soup on the table and steals back to the room where he left the recorder. Presses play.

_So I got arrested about a week ago, and I took a leave from my job so that I could go to prison for two-ish years. I got arrested for arson, but that’s the only thing they ever caught me for. They suspected me for a bunch of other stuff, but they never proved anything. It was still enough for my partner-in-crime to leave the country -- that’s Emori! You know her. We, ah, dated for awhile. Before that, we were roommates. She’s -- well, you know Emori. She’s the same girl in all meridians; she’ll die a pagan. I’m going to write letters in prison to her. Actually, maybe you should send a letter to her now -- she’ll wonder why they stopped. Or get Octavia to show you how to use Skype._

What.

_Actually, you’re probably not quite ready for that yet._

He wishes he could skip ahead, find something more relevant. But all the tracks are written down, and he’s not that great at reading. How does Clarke even spell her name?

_Here are the things you need to do as soon as you get out of prison:_   
_One: you’ll need a place to stay. Most of my stuff has probably been packed up and moved into storage while Octavia got another roommate, probably -- I arranged for you to room with Bellamy when you get out, but I don’t know when you’ll get out and I don’t know where he’s living now._

Mmm. Things were straight with him and Bellamy when he left, but where are they now? How does Past Him know Bellamy? Honestly, how does Past Him know Clarke?

_Two: You’ll need to get your old job back. I worked three separate jobs: I’m a journalist, a food reviewer for Ark, an online publication; I’m kind of part of a revolution; and sometimes I do odd jobs._

A revolution? That doesn’t sound good. He’d prefer to stay to the sidelines in any conflict, personally.

_Don’t worry about that last one, actually. We’ll get to that later._

This has been confusing and terrible, so far. He almost -- almost! -- misses prison. He stops the recorder and sets it down -- it wasn’t damaged when he dropped it, so he can assume it’s pretty sturdy. He’s still very careful with it.

Clarke is at the door. “Octavia is here,” she says. “Come out into the living room.”

He hasn’t heard anyone arrive. Maybe he wasn’t paying attention.

\---

Not-Murphy follows her into the living room. Octavia is standing there, divested of her motorcycle helmet but not her leather jacket. Octavia goes in for a hug -- Not-Murphy flinches but seems to hug her back, if only for politeness’ sake. “Hey, Murph,” says Octavia when they break apart. Her voice sounds like it does backstage after a show: overused and strained. “How’d you get that bruise?”

Not-Murphy looks possibly more uncomfortable than previously. “You know,” he says. “I’m a lot of trouble.”

Octavia frowns. “Yeah? You know who I am?”

Not-Murphy glances at Clarke, and then back to Octavia. “Yeah,” he says. “You’re Bellamy’s psycho little sister.”

Octavia flinches, and Not-Murphy does his best to look smaller. “Murphy, can you get out of here for a second? I need to talk to Clarke.”

And Octavia is acting kind of like her mom, and Not-Murphy takes the opportunity to flee, and Octavia is sitting down on Clarke’s couch. Clarke puts her hand on Octavia’s back, going for comforting. Octavia puts her face in her hands, and she’s crying, and -- and they’re both crying.

It’s been a bad day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the year is actually 2022 because Murphy spent two years in prison, Past-Murphy is just bad at math and also the future and being in it
> 
> next chapter: Emori! also probably, Lincoln!!
> 
> let me know if you're into this! leave me comments, or kudos, or whatever! even if you're reading this way after it updated, i will still immensely appreciate them. i promise.


	4. it's not for you

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Murphy leaves plans for Murphy. Clarke is also in this chapter. Murphy also doesn't remember very well about CDs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Murphy probably took the class "old earth technology" on the Ark. before he got expelled

_The third thing you’ll need to do is help out with my funeral. I, John Murphy, of sound body and mind, give all my possessions and land to you, John Murphy of the Sky People, from the future. Haha, like that’ll hold up in court. There’s the general logistics, like organizing it -- I think we can leave that up to Octavia and Clarke for now -- and the stuff you’ll need to do. I want it to be in Clarke’s mom’s house on the lake, in the UP -- it should be just starting into summer, when you get out, I think, so that’s the perfect time. There’s a CD in your messenger bag labelled “Murphy’s Funeral Mix”, and I want that CD to play. There won’t be any ashes or anything, since you’re clearly here instead of me, so don’t worry about that. There’s a second CD in the zippered pocket of the messenger bag labelled “Murphy’s Funeral Mix 2” -- that’s a selection of speeches I’ve written and recorded for the benefit of my friends. Uhhh, don’t mix those up._

_They’ll need some time to tell everyone, to get it all set up. Maybe in three days._

Murphy sorts through the messenger bag. He’s pretty sure CDs are round, flat discs, but -- Oh, there we go. He has no idea which CD is which. They’re labelled, in a scratchy handwriting that might be his own. Words are hard. He lets it go. Clarke and Octavia are still talking in low, concerned voices. He looks through the rest of the bag, more thoroughly. Contents are: a paperback book, crumpled paper, a sketchbook. He pulls out the sketchbook. Opens it: inside, there is a sketch of the dropship, in all the wrong colors. That’s kind of disturbing. Another sketch: the expanse of the Dead Zone. Another: the lighthouse bunker, care given to the motorcycles, the cracked screen of the television, the pistol still left on the table.

The first person in the sketchbook is Emori: her face is right, mostly, but there’s a picture attached, and she doesn’t have her face tattoo. That’s incorrect. He removes the photo. The next is Bellamy, and his sketch is all wrong; he’s smiling, for one, which never happens anymore, and his face is easier. He removes the photo from there, too. Then he flips through the sketchbook and removes all the photos, sets them on the night stand. He has a pile of photographs and a pile of paper clips.

They’re all people he knows. Except they’re not. They’re people Past Murphy knows, and they just kind of look like people he knows. Knew. Will know. Clarke kind of acts like Real Clarke, though. Princess, with her fancy house with a guest room and her car that doesn’t make noise. And like she wants to fix him, all tied up in her guilt and her pain and her sympathy. Like she looked at him before Finn. After Finn. Well. Here we are.

Octavia isn’t anything like Real Octavia. She’s nicer, which is awful, and taller, which is okay.

He looks through the photos again. There’s Harper, there’s Monroe, there’s Jasper, Monty, Clarke, Raven, Octavia, Emori, a bunch of Grounders he doesn’t really know. There’s Wells.

No Mbege. No Finn.

He’s not disappointed. It’s just that there’s a weight still anchored inside his chest, and it won’t let up. That’s all.

\---

Clarke stops into his room again after Octavia has stopped crying. She doesn’t say anything, just stares at him awhile, until he’s unsettled enough to start talking. “He wants to hold a funeral,” says Not-Murphy. “At your mom’s house. In the you-pee.”

“He’s talking to you?” she asks. Do they have a psychic connection? Does Not-Murphy dream of Murphy in the same way that Murphy dreamt of the future? Please, please, please: the only person she wants to talk to right now is Murphy, not this weird replacement who doesn’t know her instead.

Murphy holds up Not-Murphy’s recorder. “Can I see?” Clarke asks.

She expects him to wordlessly hand it over, helpless in the face of the fact that he knows/doesn’t know her, that she’s some kind of leader in his world. He doesn’t. “It’s for me,” he says, clutching it. “It’s not for you.”

Clarke frowns. “Come on,” she says. “Just for a couple minutes.”

Not-Murphy shakes his head. “The CDs are for you. The recorder is for me.”

She opens her mouth again, “John --” which is what her mom always does, and he flinches. He grips the recorder tighter and scooches back on the bed.

“You can’t have it,” he says, obviously forcing his voice to be as still as possible. And then, measured: “Fuck off, Clarke.”

She backs off. She takes the two CDs he’s left at the end of the bed: _Murphy’s Funeral Mix 1_ and _Murphy’s Funeral Mix 2_. “Sorry,” she says, even though she’s not sorry. She’s unreasonably angry that there’s this person in her bedroom that she doesn’t know, but she should. She should have been ready for it: Murphy had always told her it was coming. She didn’t believe him. It was impossible to. She nods to the photos on the table. “You took apart my sketchbook,” she says.

He bristles. “Not your sketchbook,” he says. “It was in my bag.”

She nods, like, _yeah, that’s a reasonable conclusion to make_. “I drew them for Murphy,” she says. “About his dreams.”

“Oh.” A pause, and then. “Where’s Finn?”

It’s her turn to blanch, to flinch. “He used to play with Octavia’s band,” she says. “But last year, I think, he broke off to start his own folk-music project. He’s kind of like a knock-off Ed Sheeran.”

“He wants the funeral in three days,” says Not-Murphy. “Can Finn come?”

Clarke shrugs. “I’ll call him,” she says. “We’ll see.” She takes the two CDs and lets Not-Murphy alone. It’s easier than talking to him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the UP is pronounced the you-pee (as in the letters). it stands for the Upper Peninsula -- they live in Michigan!
> 
> next chapter: Finn!
> 
> are you enjoying this weird story with inconsistent updates? let me know! I accept comments, kudos, and slices of pizza from your favorite pizzeria.


	5. the revolution tapes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Murphy watches Past Murphy's life's work.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cited quotes at the bottom!
> 
> I'm really sorry about the long wait, but this is definitely the hardest of my stories to write. thanks for sticking around!

To get to the UP, they have to get back in the car. It’s not Clarke’s car this time either. Octavia and Clarke have a brief argument about this, and Murphy looks out the window and pretends he’s anywhere but here. 

It’s apparently Octavia’s car, which she never uses. It’s bigger than Clarke’s car. He gets into the backseat.

“It’s gonna be a long ride,” says Clarke to Octavia. “You wanna give him something to do on the way there?”

“He can’t _read,_ Clarke,” Octavia hisses back. “What do you want me to do?”

“I want him to see the Revolution Tapes,” she says, and that makes Octavia stop and consider Clarke. 

“You sure?”

“Yeah,” says Clarke. “You’ve still got that old portable DVD player, right? He can use that.”

So they give him a folded screen machine with a CD-type thing in the bottom and a set of headphones and they start the car and they drive and they drive.

The first video starts with Past Murphy standing on a podium, shouting to a crowd of protesters, maybe. They’re carrying signs. It’s nearly impossible to hear Past Murphy over the crowd. The camera is in the middle of the crowd, which makes the audio weird and tinny. Something adjusts on the camera: Past Murphy’s voice gets clearer. “You cannot buy the revolution,” he is shouting. “You cannot make the revolution. You can only be the revolution. It is in your spirit, or it is nowhere.” Then whoever is holding the camera is shoved hard, and the whole crowd tips forward: smoke billows into the crowd and Past Murphy covers his mouth and nose. The video cuts out. 

The second video is Past Murphy sitting alone at what looks like Clarke’s kitchen table. He’s talking into the camera. He’s got a black eye. “Every rock or molotov cocktail thrown should make a very obvious political point. Random violence produces random propaganda results. Why waste even a rock?” 

The third video is Past Murphy holding the camera in one hand, pointing it at his face. “Last night a good friend of mine tried to kill herself,” he says, and Murphy wonders who that is. Was. “And here’s the thing: Revolution is not about suicide, it is about life. With your fingers, probe the holiness of your body and see that it was meant to live.” Gross. 

Fourth: the camera shows Past Murphy, at the doors of a glass building: the camera pans out to reveal a crowd of people, their faces covered. “Give us what belongs to us in peace, and if you don't give it to us in peace, we will take it by force.” They’re all shouting it, and Murphy can feel his heart reverberate with the sound.

Fifth: the camera focuses on Past Murphy, the stark light of a single bulb. Past Murphy is fingering a lighter, flipping it over and over again in his hands. “Maya,” he says, and he’s not talking to the camera this time, but to the person behind it. “Maya, you can’t stick around here. They’re coming.”

The person behind the camera, presumably Maya, says: “Unjust laws exist: shall we be content to obey them, or shall we endeavor to amend them, and obey them until we have succeeded, or shall we transgress them at once?"

“Maya, stop,” says Past Murphy, but the camera stays steady. There’s a beat, and then it zooms in farther, framing Past Murphy’s face; his nervousness, his determination. He looks away.

“For my part, whatever anguish of spirit it may cost, I am willing to know the whole truth; to know the worst and to provide for it,” says Maya, fierce.

Past Murphy sighs, and then tips his head back: the camera watches the curve of his throat, the length of the shadows over his face. “Okay,” he says to the ceiling. “You gonna put this out tonight? Because I’m not going to make it out of here alive, Maya. You’ve got to.”

“Yeah,” she says.

Past Murphy looks into the camera. “You cannot make a man listen with a bullet,” he says, and his voice is still. “No, it takes words. Ideas. Enlightenment comes through education. They can try to take away our liberties, but they cannot destroy our ideas.” There’s a knock at a door, somewhere far away. Past Murphy’s face falls, lets go of its brave pretense. “Maya —“ he says, desperate, and the camera destabilizes and then cuts out.

The sixth and final video: a shot of Emori — something _twists_ in his heart — music playing loud over the speakers, and she’s dancing, easy and free. Someone asks her a question, and she directs her answer not to the speaker, but to the camera:   “If I can't dance to it, it's not my revolution.”

He sleeps the rest of the car ride. He dreams fitfully, of Past Murphy, of whatever he was trying to accomplish, of Emori dancing. Of Maya’s voice.

 

—

 

Finn comes to his not-funeral. He shows up early, and Murphy looks at him, and tries not to feel weird about it. He remembers Clarke kissing him and killing him, and then, after: _You’re gonna burn just like your friend._ And his fists, bloody and raw afterwards. How it had been worth it. How he had felt. 

_Murphy, go upstairs._

Finn has a flask in his hand, is staring into space and drinking intermittently from it. Murphy has no great experiences with alcohol, but he approaches Finn anyway. 

Finn says: “I heard you were dead,” but he keeps staring off into the middle distance.

He says: “Finn, look at me,” and Finn turns his head, and there’s —

No. Finn is dead. There’s no reason that —

“It’s always been like a bad dream,” says Finn, looking at him with something like wonder.

“You —“ says Murphy, and Finn reaches for his shoulder, like he had in the forest, eons ago. Murphy reaches up to touch Finn’s hand, and: “You gave me the knife,” he says. 

Finn nods.

After the funeral, when they’re in Clarke’s mom’s living room eating very small sandwiches and everybody that he kind of knows is neatly avoiding him, Finn sits down next to him. “I go back on tour at the end of the week,” he says. “Stop waiting around here with Clarke. Come with me.”

“Yeah,” says Murphy. “I’d like that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “You cannot buy the revolution. You cannot make the revolution. You can only be the revolution. It is in your spirit, or it is nowhere.”  
> ― Ursula K. Le Guin, The Dispossessed
> 
> “Unjust laws exist: shall we be content to obey them, or shall we endeavor to amend them, and obey them until we have succeeded, or shall we transgress them at once?”  
> ― Henry David Thoreau
> 
> “For my part, whatever anguish of spirit it may cost, I am willing to know the whole truth; to know the worst and to provide for it.”  
> ― Patrick Henry
> 
> “Give us what belongs to us in peace, and if you don't give it to us in peace, we will take it by force.”  
> —Emma Goldman
> 
> “If I can't dance to it, it's not my revolution.”  
> ― Emma Goldman
> 
> “Every rock or molotov cocktail thrown should make a very obvious political point. Random violence produces random propaganda results. Why waste even a rock?”  
> \-- Abbie Hoffman
> 
> "Revolution is not about suicide, it is about life. With your fingers probe the holiness of your body and see that it was meant to live.”  
> \--Abbie Hoffman
> 
> “You cannot make a man listen with a bullet. No, it takes words. Ideas. Enlightenment comes through education. They can try to take away our liberties, but they cannot destroy our ideas.” --Julian Randol from Continuum
> 
> god i love maya so much
> 
> anyhow. as per usual: your comments and kudos keep me going. i appreciate each of them immensely. thanks for reading! <3


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